The sky was electric blue with a tinge of red encircling the horizon. Bloodshot red—like the heavy-lidded eyes of a mother whose child had not yet come home. In twilight, the hour when heaven still mourned the loss of its only sun, Leila and Strahan puttered through the streets of SoHo.

They were stared at. Even in a cross section of the most colorful city in the world, the hues of the couple drew attention from those who milled the streets about them. She, cloaked in black Chanel with skin as brown as gourmet chocolate, hovered very near wide shop windows. Her small frame leaned sharply in the direction of large panes of glass, as if the tiny boutiques contained a magnetic strip that attracted expensive wool—or perhaps any nearby woman-child straining for her own sense of independence through the freedom of fashion. She flicked away a stray lock from her range of vision as her dark eyes drifted over racks of clothes. She drafted new designs in the chamber of her mind. Perhaps a wardrobe’s newness could seep into the woman it clothed—changing her, molding her, making her whole. She remained focused on an array of possible purchases and future selves. Tentatively, her arm stretched out across the sidewalk so that she might hold her companion’s hand in an ambivalent grasp. Some rare ensemble could have easily broken the weak bond between them.

His hazel eyes zeroed in on the dark skies above them. The neon-striped neighborhood highlighted his reddish-brown hair and the faint sprinkling of freckles across his vacant and upturned face. Fluorescent lights streamed into his Celtic features to introduce yet another member of Ireland’s finest fields to the mean streets of New York. The ragged hem of sloppily altered army fatigues bounced against his pale knees as he staggered along the sidewalk beside his beautiful companion. A tattered T-shirt completed his ensemble. The shirt had been hastily robbed of its sleeves, but a wealth of tattoos spanning from wrist to shoulder made certain his arms would not go unadorned. He, like she, paid no attention to their direction or manner of progress. Sheathed in olive green like a modern day Peter Pan, he floated through the streets in a dazed stupor, seemingly high on fairy dust.

They shuffled past coffee shops and vegetable stands like a New York City train slowing down to a stop at a destined station. The friction of his worn sneaker’s rubber soles against grainy cement provided the soft chugging sound. Her expensive heels clicked against the ground to mimic the lopsided gait of old subway cars.

An impatient pedestrian stormed between them to break their fragile link; the expensive leather of his satchel quickly cut through the loose knot of flesh their entwined digits had created. Pale rough fingers fell from delicate brown hands. Both young people were shook from their reverie.

Strahan snapped. Narrowed lids clung to bloodshot eyes and framed the tips of pale amber irises. Locking his target in the crosshairs of his vision, Strahan snatched an armload of apples from a nearby produce stand and, one by one, launched the heavy fruit into the air, grunting with satisfaction upon hearing the heavy thuds of the apples smashing against the small of the pedestrian’s back. A volley of curses catapulted from his tongue to accompany the comestibles on their journey; the series of slurs ceased only when the frightened trekker had slipped from view. Leila calmly handed the grocer a fifty-dollar bill for the fruit and his silence, certain a transit cop would rise from the subway depths the aggrieved man had faded into to question nearby vendors about her and her odd companion. The old grocer nodded as he took the money, knowing all too well the value of information kept secret.

Leila turned from the grocer, their agreement made with nary a word spoken. "Strahan?"

The young man had already resumed walking. Muscles pumped beneath the softness of his skin as if a tight canvas strains beneath watercolors. Tattoos turned to animations with each brusque movement. His eyes, vacant once more, focused on the dark skies above him. Nearby pedestrians gave him a wide berth. Leila rushed to fall in step beside Strahan, cupping his hand within her own. Her thoughts drifted back to the stores that had flanked them.

Arm in arm, they walked from SoHo to Chinatown. Slots allotted to trendy boutiques and coffee shops were usurped by small family groceries and discount clothing vendors. No longer having expensive retail stores to hold her attention, Leila dropped her head upon the shoulder of Strahan.

The beauty of winter's twilight in New York embraced them. Nature's colors intermingled with artificial hues of urban neon to wash across the brick and concrete of storefronts and crumbling apartment buildings.

The couple turned upon a narrow street. Strahan sidestepped refuse as he nodded to indicate a well-dressed gentleman leaving a limousine parked near the curb. The expensively attired man dashed across the street, slicing through the path of several young teens in an old jalopy as he jogged to the entrance of a distinguished-looking Chinese restaurant. The youngsters stopped short.

Strahan winced as he heard the brakes of the weathered vehicle squeal. "Suits have no respect out here. Fucking thinks the world stops on a dime for 'em."

She cast an appreciative look at the limousine as it pulled from view. "I wear suits."

"You can’t be a suit unless you have the money to pay for one yourself. Playing around with Palisade’s credit cars don’t count."

She pulled her hand from his. "I don't need you to lecture me, okay?"

"Don’t care enough to lecture. You feel like shit all on your own." Shrugging, he tugged a cigarette box from one of his many pockets.

Leila smiled the smile of a surprised child. "Oh, I love those!" She yanked on his arm. Her nimble fingers crept towards his. "Let me taste it first."

"Here." Strahan shook the last cigarette from the box and handed Leila the rolled brown cylinder cradled in his palm. He inspected the package, then stuffed the empty container past the open zipper of a ragged army surplus bag. Mildly irritated with having to put his nicotine fix on hold, Strahan snorted loudly and launched a glob of phlegm from between cracked, dry lips. The bacteria-filled gel curved in a neat arc and slapped against the cement. Strahan fixed his ocher eyes upon her. "Where you plan on staying tonight?"

Had anyone else asked, she would have broken into a tirade of indignant half-formed speeches about her need for independence and her desire to seek out a life of her own. Instead, she licked contentedly around the tip of the cigarette. "I don’t know. I have enough for a hotel tonight, but I really don’t feel like spending it."

"How much you got?"

"Five hundred."

He handed her a wet wad of fifty-dollar bills. She accepted the offering gracefully, not bothering to ask how such a large sum had come into his possession. She had been trained over the years never to question.

Strahan narrowed his eyes, focusing on her hands as they slipped the moist tender into her purse. "You know you can—"

"I’m not going back to my grandmother’s."

"I was gonna ask you to give me my cigarette back."

She rolled the object between the soft pads of her fingers and smiled. "They're called bidis."

"What?"

"Bidis. Flavored cigarettes. They're from India. Can I have it?"

"No. That’s my last one." He slid the cylinder out from twixt the valley of her thumb and forefinger, quickly popping one end into his mouth. Her saliva had made the paper moist and sweet. He hadn’t noted their flavor until tonight. "Sides, you don’t even smoke them."

"I like the way they taste."

He watched her pout from the corners of his eyes. "Too bad." Stopping in mid-stride, he cautiously lit a match and raised it slowly towards his face. His hands cupped the light and heat radiating from the tiny flame, shielding the miniscule fire from a sudden death by winter winds. The blaze illuminated the fiery tints in his reddish-brown hair.

She moved from him.

It was the music that lured her away. Vibrant and alluring beats paired with a mournful dirge—it wasn't the usual cut one would hear bleeding from the boomboxes and speakers that peppered the crowded walkways of New York City streets. Leila wandered towards the origin of the sound, quickly enveloped by beams of light streaming from the entrance of a nearby electronics shop. She smiled meekly at the cold and disgruntled vendor standing beside her as she rifled through the various cases of bootleg CDs and DVDs he peddled. Not wanting her to disrupt his neatly stocked inventory any further, he shoved a laminated sheet before her face.

Her eyes quickly skimmed the song list. "Who sings this?" She pointed to the stereo.

"Palisade." He handed her a CD. "You want?"

Palisade. She recoiled at her guardian's name. "Nah. That's okay."

She heard him curse her under his breath as she approached a competing vendor, an equally dour looking elderly woman hovering over a case of counterfeit True Religion jeans. Her gaze flashed back to Strahan.

His amber eyes skidded over streaks of violet in the midnight sky. Unruly locks brushed against his long lashes, the tresses dropping over the ledge of his brow to dance against his lids. He didn't move, not even when the bustle of the city began to box him in. Strahan faded from view as a crowd of commuters bounding up from the subway enveloped him. He stood ramrod straight before the stairway, the course of the city flowing around him like waves splashing across weathered piers.

He locked his eyes upon the skies to decrypt secret messages hidden amongst the clouds—starlight twinkling in Morse code. Nodding as if a great understanding had washed over him, his slipped his hand into his worn knapsack to clutch a dog-eared notebook. Empty cartons dropped to the floor as he yanked his bounty free of the bag. He had yet to take a full drag from his cigarette. It burned quietly between his lips. Ash rained upon his chest. He fell to his haunches.

"Strahan?" Slowly she approached him, cautiously calling out his name. She dropped to her knees to slide her hands across his shoulders, shaking slightly at the sensation of her warm flesh against his cold skin.

He took no notice. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, he scribbled furiously into his notebook. Later, he would not even possess the ability to decipher the various symbols and words that had flowed from his fingertips, but at that exact moment of creation, he grasped it all perfectly. Everything.

"Strahan?" She sighed deeply when again he didn't answer. "I'm gonna stay at the Trump SoHo tonight. Don't tell Pal, okay?" Her lips brushed against his cheek. She stroked his lips thoughtfully, then plucked the half-finished cigarette from between them. She snuffed the butt out in the margin of his journal. A smoky wreath danced amidst the pages for a moment or two, then slowly floated into the skies as if a spirit ascending to its final resting place. Leila slipped the smoldering cigarette into her mouth as she turned to leave, enjoying the flavor of the paper—enhanced by the taste of his saliva mingled with her own.

Her heels clicked against the cement in time to Palisade's voice blaring from the radio.